


Misguided Infatuation Mistaken For Love

by stayfr0sty



Category: I Don't Know How But They Found Me (Band), Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alcohol, Bar, Friends With Benefits, Gay, Kinda, Lovers, M/M, Poor dude, Smut, Softcore smut, Sugar Daddy, Unrequited Love, affair, and brendon is broke, brallon, cause dal is a lonely bitch, except dallon isnt a daddy he just has money, friends - Freeform, hookup, lonely, not really - Freeform, that sounds better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 01:35:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17152835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stayfr0sty/pseuds/stayfr0sty
Summary: It's not love.But Dallon wonders if it could be, under the right circumstances, and with enough alcohol in their veins and enough money in Brendon's pocket.And Brendon couldn't care less.





	Misguided Infatuation Mistaken For Love

The bar is too dimly lit for Dallon's weak eyes. He didn't think to wear contacts, and God knows he wouldn't venture outside in his glasses. Joe told him that they made him look like a college professor, and a pretentious one at that, and he scoffed and told him to fuck off, but he remembers his words whenever he thinks to put on his glasses. He doesn't need any help in the pretentious college professor department, anyway. His normal attire consists of sweaters, vests, and some combinations of the two, and he's harmless enough, but his head is too full of useless movie trivia to do anyone any good.

Tonight, however, he's dressed up; or as dressed up as Dallon Weekes could be. Classic black jacket, classic black jeans, classic vintage button-up that's far too tight to be comfortable, and classic Doc Martens. His hair is gelled, maybe a bit too much, but he wants to look presentable. And he does- eyes are on him, which he likes, almost.

Soon, he has a drink in his hand, after flagging the bartender down and asking for the strongest thing he's got. He's sitting at the bar, alone but not necessarily lonely. He scans the crowd, and is only somewhat disappointed when he doesn't see a particular someone. It's still early, after all. He checks his phone, and only looks up when he feels someone's presence.

It's not the person he's hoping for. It's a girl. Well, woman. Someone of the female species. She's pretty, Dallon notes, but he is- well, gay, and pretty girls don't have much of an effect on him.

She smiles. Dallon instantly hates her.

"Buy me a drink?" she asks hopefully. 

Dallon, without really meaning it, tells her to fuck off, and she frowns and turns away. He doesn't have anything against her. Not that he doesn't hold grudges: he does, and he wouldn't say he is a nice person. No, he isn't a nice person at all.

His attitude changes when he sees _him_. Brendon, beautiful Brendon with that confident smile and perfect hair. God, he's pretty. He's the center of attention without meaning to be, he's the magnet that draws everyone in, and Dallon inhales sharply when he catches a glimpse of how Brendon's legs look in those jeans. Brendon doesn't bother greeting him, exactly, he only slides onto the stool next to him and orders a drink - on Dallon's tab, of course.

"How have things been?" Dallon asks, and instantly regrets it, because he sees Brendon's expression change. He doesn't like questions about himself, he knows. He'll talk about sex, love, hate, whether God exists, but Dallon isn't privy to the ongoings of Brendon's life. It's part of their arrangement, and he's made his peace with it, but sometimes, when he sees the scars on his skin or the pills in his pockets, he wishes he could ask questions.

"Good," Brendon answers politely, and there is no sign of his fiery personality in his eyes. There is only blankness, the dull look that sometimes comes over Brendon's face, like he's disconnecting himself to the world. That, too, Dallon wishes he could ask him about. Alcohol and cigarettes are the only ways to open him up. And even then, when they're lying drunk in Dallon's bed and the latest Arctic Monkeys album is playing on repeat - Brendon's love for twink music was something that Dallon tolerated, but despised - Brendon never truly talks about himself. There are rare moments when Dallon sees into his head, when Brendon speaks in useless metaphors and twisted poetry, but those moments are few and far in between.

Brendon downs his drink when it's handed to him, and, of course, Dallon's glass is already empty.

Dallon hates clubs, Brendon knows it, so they spend not even five minutes at the bar before Dallon suggests that maybe they should leave. Bars are places to meet, not places to stay. Besides, his veins are already buzzing with adrenaline and alcohol, and he needs to release his pent-up energy.

They don't head back to Dallon's apartment, not at first. They're standing near an alleyway, somewhere near a corner store that advertises cheap liquor and great deals. It's cold, so cold; Dallon can see every exhale that leaves Brendon's pretty pink lips. He pulls out a lighter, and Dallon watches as Brendon's skinny fingers light a cigarette and bring it to said pretty pink lips. 

Dallon watches as a girl pukes on the sidewalk across the road. The boy next to her stares, cold, unfeeling.

Dallon watches as police cars zoom past, sirens echoing in the night.

Brendon exhales, smoke blossoming out into the air. Dallon admires the way he looks with the moonlight shining onto his face, illuminating his cheekbones and his eyelashes.

"Kiss me," he says roughly, and Brendon obliges. His lips taste like smoke, and beer, and everything wrong with the world. God, Dallon wants more. They're in public, but this is San Francisco and nobody gives a shit. So nobody cares when Dallon's lips find their way to Brendon's neck. Nobody cares when Dallon's leg slots in between Brendon's thigh. Nobody cares when Brendon's back arches and Dallon grins.

"You're always so fucking horny," Brendon groans, shoving Dallon off of him, The cigarette, dangled carelessly between his fingers, drops to the ground. "What, you don't want to talk about love and feelings?" He grins, and both of them know this isn't love.

"I don't pay you to have feelings," Dallon points out, and he's right. He pays him for sex, and maybe his company before or after. Nothing more, nothing less.

"You could wait until we get to your place." Brendon's eyebrow arches, like he's challenging him. Yeah, right. Like the twink could do anything to Dallon. Brendon weighs maybe 30 pounds less, is at least half a foot shorter than him, and exudes twink energy.

"I don't pay you to give me advice, either," he returns, and then he kisses him again, all rough and uncaring. Dallon wonders if he wants to get this over with, right here, right now. And then his eyes flit to the side, and he sees the boy from earlier, watching. Either he's judgemental or he's jealous, and Dallon doesn't want to deal with either of those situations, so he pulls away from Brendon and digs his phone out of his pocket.

The taxi arrives in minutes, and he and Brendon unceremoniously stumble into the backseat. The taxi driver couldn't care less, either, so they spend the time with Dallon's hands all over Brendon and Brendon's hips bucking up, pushing, begging for more.

They make it to his place, but only barely. The bedsheets are cold against Dallon's skin, but Brendon is so, so warm. He's pretty, even in dim lighting such as this, when the only light comes from his bedside lamp and the window, propped open so as to let in fresh air. Brendon is the only boy to have visited Dallon's bed in months. He's the only one Dallon trusts enough to let him inside his home.

As if trust is even a factor. He doesn't know Brendon's last name, and yet he's all tangled up with him in bed and Brendon's warm mouth is on his skin and his hands are working magic and oh, God, Dallon's never seen such a beautiful sight as Brendon sucking a bruise into his hipbone. His eyes are so impossibly sinful as he looks up at him, and Dallon doesn't love him, he doesn't love him, but oh, how he wished he could call him his.

"Oh," he sighs out, fists gripping the bedsheets, "Oh, _oh_ -"

It's over sooner than Dallon would like, because Brendon is rising up from his position between his legs and he's tilting his head towards the bedside table, and then Dallon shifts and reaches over to pull a drawer open, and Brendon murmurs assent, and his breathing is the only sound in the room.

Brendon's so close. He's so close, with Dallon's lips inches from his and their bodies touching. Skin against skin. He's so close, and yet so far, because sex with Brendon is never intimate. Contrary to what one might think, sex is not an intimate act when it is born out of money and not love. It's not intimate, when he doesn't know a single thing about him. It's not intimate, but he wishes it was.

He comes with a sigh, and wishes Brendon wasn't so far away.

"An extra hundred," he offers in a low voice when Brendon makes a move to leave. "An extra hundred if you stay."

So Brendon stays, and Dallon pulls him close, and he pretends that this is what love feels like.

Love is five hundred-dollar bills stacked neatly in an envelope, with the letter "B" printed on the front in neat cursive.

Love is the taste of alcohol and the familiar smell of Brendon's cologne.

Love is the feeling of Brendon's body pressed against his and the way he whispers his name when he comes.

He pretends that this is what love feels like.


End file.
